Lost in the Translation
by Auntieoaty
Summary: I do not like Angst stories and I especially do not like those that include, hint at, imply, or otherwise have any element of a main (or ship) character death. But trust me when I say, "Genre: Angst" may not be what you expect in this case (there is some heavy, albeit subtle, romance). Give it a read and let me know what you think. If I am wrong I will change the summary - Promise!


Lost in the Translation

Author's Note:

I do not like Angst stories and I especially do not like those that include, hint at, imply, or otherwise have any element of a main (or ship) character death. Take it as a warning and or a spoiler (in fact, in this case, a two-way spoiler) but also know this story overtook me, utterly out of the blue; squirreled around on me, tormented me, led me a merrier chase and refused not to be written; Angst and all. In all honesty, I had no idea how it was going to go, at any point, until it showed itself in each new, often unexpected, idea. All I did was try my best to get the ideas written down as they came. That is a frequent aspect of my writing process in general. However in this case, I did no; zero, nada, nothing, in the way of active pondering or coaxing to the plot. I was merely along, as the first one, to ride this story wave; in the role of scribe. Here's hoping those who read it enjoy it as much as I did.

As Always: no infringement intended, no profit garnered – all mistakes are mine alone; no Beta.

Spoilers: Anything is always possible for any, or multiple installments of the show.

Christopher Foyle had spent the last several hours on the phone. After receiving a long distance call telling him Sam Wainwright was dead, he phoned every friend, acquaintance, former coworker, and any contact he could think of for more information. No one knew anything. A couple of them said they would get back to him if they hear anything. Finally, one contact from London's Metropolitan Police said he would look into it and call Foyle back in the morning whether he found anything or not. Foyle asked him to please call the moment he knew anything, no matter what the time. The news was so unfathomable Foyle could not believe it was true. Even so, he found it difficult to remain still while awaiting the promised call. He spent a considerable amount of time organizing his writing desk. It was a chore he had been avoiding since his return to Hastings. The task was far from reaching a completion as he was repeatedly sidelined by things that would remind him of Sam and cause him to become lost in thought or distracted by his desire for his phone to ring.

At a quarter past 10 the phone rang, Foyle jumped up to answer it and cause a flurry of papers to float from his lap to the floor. His contact from the Met was on the line with a teletype from the International Criminal Police Commission.

"It's rife with typographical errors I'm afraid, but the gist of it is there was an automobile accident in Germany that, and I'm quoting here, 'Caused death to driver, Sam Wainwright, and greatly injured one passenger' I'm sorry Christopher. If I get anything more I'll let you know."

His vacant words held barely enough volume to be heard at the other end of the line, "Yes, do. Thank you."

Foyle sat in shock. Detached, mental absorption completely consumed his mind; effectively suppressing any interest in, or ability to, accurately gage time. Seconds ticked into minutes and minutes into hours. He picked up the phone and placed a call to his son.

A groggy, barely coherent voice answered, "Hulla?"

"Andrew?" The devastation, in his father's voice, almost fully obscuring the familiarity of it.

"Dad?! Dad, what is it? What's wrong?!" He was in motion, even though he wasn't sure where he thought he should be going. Andrew flipped on a light and checked his watch. It was a few ticks past 2:30 in the morning.

"Sam." Shattered emotion in his father's voice when he said the name left no doubt in the younger man's mind.

However, he knew he had to confirm his fear; he didn't dare move forward on a false assumption. "Dead?"

The sharp intake of breath, by his father, reinforced his earlier thought, but he had to be sure. Going off pell-mell would only cause him to make the situation worse if he were wrong. Andrew hoped against hope he _was_ wrong, but his father's state and the fact he was calling in the middle of the night spoke to his inner self; searing the truth into his heart and mind.

"Dad?"

An audible swallow preceded the four dreaded words of confirmation, "Yes, Andrew, she's gone." The last word was little more than a 'gu' sound as a choked sob stole Foyle's air and strangled the word in mid utterance.

"Are you at home?"

"Yeah." Another truncated word was the best his dad could do.

"I'm on my way."

"Nn... " Foyle's attempted resistance faded before he could finish the single syllable protest.

"Yes, dad! It'll take some time of course but I'll be there just as soon as I can."

"Yeah," was all he managed before ending the call and giving in to the anguish.

Foyle's body began to turn inward on itself as he folded his shoulders forward and buried his face in his hands. He succumbed to his grief in full. The loss of Sam! There was so much more than a single statement could contain; the loss of his friend, the one person that had infused his life with purpose for years, with her indomitable eagerness and perpetual optimism. A loss so profound the only comparison he could equate it to was the loss of his wife.

His grief was suddenly compounded and demanded it's release. He cried to a depth he had only ever experienced once before in his life. Rosalind had been ill such a brief period of time and then was gone so quickly, shock had enveloped him and remained a solid insulating shield in the days and weeks that followed her death. Her funeral and most of the month that followed were never completely clear in his memory; shock had been so uppermost it served to blur the events and his subsequent recall of that time. Approximately two months after his Rosalind's death, while fixing breakfast one morning, he burst into inconsolable sobs that wracked his body and sent him staggering backward the few steps need to fall into a chair at the kitchen table. Foyle had had no control over the outpouring of grief for several minutes. Only the deeply engrained fear, of not wanting his son to witness the utter depth of his sorrow, allowed him to pull himself together a short time later. He had fully expected his heart to push those emotions back in such a sudden explosion for a good month or more after that morning. As time went on that dreaded expectation eased as he learned to vent his grief in small, controlled measures; only when assured he was completely alone.

Foyle was nearing exhaustion from the emotional pain and physical exertion of crying. The best he could do for himself in the moment was to push his upper body back into the chair, lay his head back and breathe in as deeply as he possibly could. Thinking the repositioning would allow him the oxygen his body craved and would calm him into quelling his tears he found only the first part to prove true. His head back, resting on the top of the chair back allowed for the tears to sting a fresh line of skin from his eyes down to his ears. He swiped a few times at the tears and finally gave up any attempt to wipe them away; more were coming anew with each beat of his heart. Time continued on around his oblivion. His only conscious thoughts revolving around Sam, her loss, and all the times he had failed to tell her what she had truly meant to him. Parallels and distinctions between her and Rosalind would insinuate themselves between his memories of Sam and his thoughts of regret; all the chances he had allowed to slip past.

Sometime later, no way he could have guessed how long, he started to realize he was having trouble breathing. Tilting his head back had initially been beneficial to his drawing much needed air into his lungs. At present his nose was so clogged he found himself gulping for air, a pitiful impersonation of a fish when pulled from the water. Pushing himself to his feet, he grappled with the uncooperative fabric of his trousers, to retrieve his handkerchief. Blowing his nose a couple times helped a little in clearing his airway and shaking him a bit from his previously all-consuming grief. Foyle made his way into the kitchen, ran his head under the tap, scrubbed his face with the cool water, shut the spigot off, and troweled his face and head. The small kitchen towel was less than effective in absorbing all the water, but it was enough to prevent his dripping all over. As a means of catching any errant drops, he draped the towel around his neck. In a daze, he returned to his chair, in the sitting room, and sank fully into the cushions.

Foyle had no more closed his eyes when he heard the telltale sounds of the front door being unlocked and opened. With his remaining energy he opened his eyes in time to see his son step through the hall door into the sitting room. It wasn't possible, he had to be dreaming, they had just spoken on the phone; his son was in London.

"Dad?" The tentative and pained tone of the familiar voice began to part the veil of disbelief.

He stood as he watched the figure step closer, "Andrew?" still not fully believing his eyes.

The strong, surprising, embrace of his son burned through the haze and struck home in Foyle's consciousness. He found himself clutching his son so tightly, he had a fleeting concern; he might be preventing Andrew's ability to breathe.

The two held firm to each other and tried, through their own grief, to comfort the other. As they each became aware of the unaccustomed expression of affection they started to tense. In matched actions, the men parted.

"Drink?" Foyle asked, moving to retrieve The Glenlivet without awaiting an answer.

"Please." Andrew confirmed as his father poured the pale amber liquid into each glass, omitting the water.

This was not a time for sipping and savoring a soothing glass of scotch. They both needed the bracer; the conversation to come was likely to be the hardest of their lives. Each man threw back the short drink and sat in their respective chairs facing each other.

Andrew found his voice first, "What happened?"

Foyle ran a hand into his hair, surprised to find it still damp. Momentarily distracted, he lost himself in wondering how long he had cried and grieved for Sam. He had begun, in truth, before he ended their call, and had only just wet his head and face shortly before Andrew came in. 'It couldn't have been that long. Could it?'

"Dad?" Andrew's voice was as tender as if he were addressing a scared child.

"Uuuh. Sorry."

Foyle relayed the information he had, beginning with the strange, disjointed, long distance call he had received just after lunch. His German was at best piecemeal and spotty, the caller's English was much worse. With great concerted effort on both sides, the two men worked their way through the conversation. Sam was dead. There was a note next his entry Sam's address book; In Event of Emergency. He had requested, and was fairly sure he had made himself understood, that he did not want Sam's parent's contacted by phone. After a brief exchange between the informing officer and himself, Foyle insisted he would visit the couple personally to give them the news. Recounting the events of the ensuing calls and the fact that only one yielded any information; Foyle brought Andrew through what he knew and then explained what was next. He would call his friend first thing for any updated information and then he planned to drive to Lyminster to break the news to Reverend and Mrs. Stewart. Andrew said he would drive. After the two debated the point, it was agreed, once Andrew asserted he had had four hours more sleep than his father in the previous 24 hours and was, although he hated to mention it, younger; thus requiring less sleep.

With further insistence, Andrew convinced his father to go upstairs and do a proper clean-up and change. He had pushed for his dad to rest too, but finding solid resistance to that suggestion, he acquiesced and offered to fix some tea while he waited his dad's return downstairs.

The phone rang while Foyle was upstairs. Andrew answered the call only to find it was long distance and his German was worse than his father's. The best he could do was yell upstairs to tell his dad there was a call for him from Germany. By the time Foyle reached the phone the foreign caller was handing the phone off to someone else.

Andrew watched intently, eager to know anything more, needing to know; nearly to the point of compulsion, while simultaneously dreading hearing anything more.

Foyle held the receiver to his ear, "Hullo?"

"Christopher?" The voice was female, of that he was certain, but a deep hoarseness greatly distorted it to the point it could almost have been mistaken for a man's voice.

"Yes. Who's calling please?"

"It's me." There was a hitch to the voice as gasps of air were drawn in in a group of short ragged gulps. "It's Sam, sir."

His knees buckled and his color drained away. Andrew lunged for his dad and grabbed his arm for support as he swiftly swung the chair around just as Foyle dropped into it.

"Sam?" He was a disturbingly ashen hue and was beginning to shutter. The fingers around the receiver began to twitch and his eyes lost focus as they appeared to glaze over.

"Dad?!" Without a care to the rudeness of the action Andrew snatched the phone from his father and hissed, "Who is this?"

A decidedly hoarse and surprised voice pitched up, "Andrew? Is that you?"

"Who is this?" He demanded. His anger compounded by the frustration of something vaguely familiar in the voice that he couldn't place.

"Andrew, it's me. It's Sam."

Feeling his own legs flinch, he fell back against the doorframe for support and looked at his father.

"Sam?! Sam Stewart, Sam?"

"Yes. Well, Sam Wainwright now, but yes, still Sam."

"But, uhm, how, uh, I mean, They said ..."

"Oh, god, it's true? They told your father I was dead?"

Andrew's turn for a hoarse voice, as his throat suddenly went dry and he struggled to form the words, "Yes. Yes, they did."

Sam's raspy voice was pushed to its limit as she urgently asked, "Where is he Andrew? He was just on the phone! Where is he? I have to ..."

Her voice was rising in a panic as she continued, making her difficult to understand. Andrew cut her off, "Here. He's here, Sam. Although I, well I'm not sure he's quite, uh, found his voice yet."

His father's eyes were locked on his as Andrew did his best to convey confirmation that it was Sam on the phone. Foyle reached for the receiver just as Sam demanded, "Put him on the phone! He can hear me! Can't h ...?" her words were lost to him as his father drew the phone away from him and placed it to his own ear.

"SSS..." was all Foyle was able to say through a shaky breath.

"Yes! Yes, it's Sam! Oh, Christopher! I am so very sorry. This whole situation is a dreadful mess. I don't even know where to begin." She swallowed and tried to draw in some more ragged breaths. "I, that is they, I only just found out a little while ago that they had called and told you..."

"Sam?" Foyle's voice was stronger and his focus allowed him to finish her name, but his tone expressed his shock and bewilderment.

"Yes." She knew then she needed to slow down so he could catch up to all she had said. Her heart ached to think they had called him and told him she had died. How could they not tell a Samantha from an Adam? Language barrier be damned! How could anybody make such a mistake?

When he didn't say anything more she opted to give him one more vital piece of information.

"It was Adam. He was thrown from the car. They made a mistake. I'm still not sure how but they did."

"Where ..."

"In Germany."

"… are you?"

She realized he was in a real state and was angered anew at the terrible, and completely unnecessary, shock he had been given.

"I don't know the name of the hospital. But there is a nurse who's English is pretty good. She's the one that helped me figure out the mistake and arranged for me to phone you." Sam felt and heard her voice begin to fail from the exertion, "Better put Andrew back on."

Foyle nodded, not registering the fact she couldn't see him, and thrust the receiver to his son. "Sam," was all he said by way of explanation.

"Sam?" The younger Foyle was fully composed, if not still a bit confused.

She repeated the information regarding the nurse and then put said nurse on the phone.

The woman gave Andrew the name of the hospital, directions for reaching it from Hamburg, and instructions on how to reach her when they arrived. The nurse assured him she would make sure they would be permitted on the ward and be able to see Sam.

Sam learned from her nurse that Adam had been saying 'Sam' when the emergency personnel reached him. They asked his name and he said 'Sam' once more; so they thought he was Sam. They found the address book with 'Property of Sam Wainwright' written on the inside cover and thought it was his.

In the accident Sam had been tossed about the interior of the car and then when Adam was thrown from the car she was plunged toward the steering wheel without being able to brace for the impact. She had been slammed throat first into the steering wheel as the car suddenly stopped moving. Her communication was initially limited to writing; reading English was not a high skill among the German hospital staff.

From her bed, Sam saw the two men enter the ward close on the heels of her nurse. It was along torturous minute before she could see Christopher's face. 'He's aged', she thought and feared it was the stress of the false alarm that had caused it.

The three advanced toward her and when Foyle saw her his relief was overwhelming. Tears shimmered in his eyes but he did nothing to hide them or brush them away. He paused, with a hand on the foot board of a nearby bed, to steady himself as a wave of emotion flowed over him. It mercifully passed almost as quickly as it had overtaken him. Foyle stepped up to her bedside, sat in the chair the nurse had provided, leaned forward and took hold of her hand. For a couple of minutes he just stared at her, as Andrew stood at the foot of her bed taking in the scene before him.

Andrew had expected his father to be embarrassed by his earlier display of grief, show discomfort in their having shared such an unusual physical closeness, express anger over the misinformation; something, anything. However, aside from his color slowly returning and his ability to verbally communicate coherently, there was nothing said about the state in which he had found his father. Nothing was said about anything that occurred prior to Sam's phone call.

A soft murmur of voices drew Andrew's attention from his ruminations of earlier in the day. He became an uncomfortable witness to the exchange between Sam and his father. The looks, hushed tones that didn't quite reach his own ears at a decipherable volume, the touching; it was all too much. Too familiar an exchange than should have been at all appropriate. And yet, it seemed imperative they communicate in just such an inclusive manner. The previously unfamiliar way of interacting, between the two, suddenly appeared to be most natural and quite comforting to both. It was all together too intimate for anyone to bear witness to. Andrew quietly slipped away unnoticed. Leaving the pair as they were; in a world all their own.

Author's Note:

For those interested, or simply wondering, I am operating from the idea that Sam and Adam and traveled by way of the Night Ferry sleeper cars, which at times also allowed for the transport of personal automobiles. Later Foyle and Andrew traveled by plane from London to Hamburg via British European Airways. From London to Hamburg in 1948 the flight time would have roughly been 2 ½ hours. International Criminal Police Commission was the precursor to INTERPOL.


End file.
